


a fine lobster kettle

by whalersandsailors



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, One Night Stands, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Canon, Stranger Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:55:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25392733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: The man tells Solomon that he doesn't normally do this. Solomon says fine.He's also not in the habit of picking up pretty strangers from pubs, but he can indulge every now and again.
Relationships: Lt Edward Little/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 36
Kudos: 61





	a fine lobster kettle

**Lobster Kettle n. —** someone who propositions or sleeps with Marines, typically in port; ‘to make a lobster kettle out of oneself’

Solomon realizes he is staring when Bill nudges him.

He starts, violently enough that his beer would slosh onto his arm if the mug weren’t already empty. A cough shoves aside the embarrassment, and he rubs his knuckle against his chin. He folds his hands together on his lap when Bill’s smile grows wider.

“I’ll get us another round,” Solomon mutters.

His chair squeaks as he shoves from the table and stands.

With his back turned to Bill, Solomon casts his gaze across the room again. He glances sidelong at the impossibly straight back of the gentleman in the corner. _Gentleman_ , of course, for what else could he be?

Keeping one eye on the bar while sidestepping other patrons, Solomon orders two more beers. He leans back onto the counter, both elbows on the varnished wood, his face turned toward the room. He extends one leg, casually crossing his feet at the ankles. He sports his Marine uniform tonight, and he knows what a fine image he must cast. His body hums with satisfaction at how many faces turn his way, each man whispering clandestinely to his neighbor behind mugs or cuffs.

The gentleman in the corner remains blissfully unaware. Solomon frowns, turning his head enough to get a better view of him.

He sits at the opposite end of the bar with another man, their conversation too soft to overhear. From here, Solomon can see his dark hair, neatly combed with a spit-clean part and long enough to curl around the shell of his ear. The jacket cuts into a trim waist — properly tailored even if it draws a bit tight across the shoulders. He appraises the lean line of the trousers, perfectly clean and unwrinkled.

Shame that the man won’t turn his way. There’s the hint of sideburns and a sharp nose as the man faces the bar. The bartender drops the fresh mugs onto the counter behind Solomon, and he grabs them, veering in a semi-circle around the room before returning to his table in another vain attempt to see the gentleman’s face.

His strategy is to avail. The gentleman stays bent over his drink and engaged with his friend. It is as though Solomon were invisible behind him.

Solomon slides into his chair beside Bill, whose shoulders quake with silent laughter. With a frown bordering on petulance, Solomon pushes his mug across the table at him, and some of Bill’s laughter leave him in a wheeze.

He takes a long drink and coughs from laughing too hard. Glaring, Solomon gives him a kick in the shins.

“You’re as bad as a boy who’s just discovered how to tug on his prick,” Bill says.

“It’s not a crime to look,” he mutters with his lips resting against the edge of his mug and his eyes drifting again toward the gentleman.

Bill shakes his head but otherwise drops it. It’s with an ounce of pity, that Solomon tries to not resent. Unlike Bill, he doesn’t have a wife or sweetheart, on account of his particular tastes. Bill might tease, but then he’ll let him ogle in peace.

Bill changes the subject, talking instead of their upcoming voyage. Solomon nods and grunts in returns, the topic already a sore spot for him. He, Bill, and a handful of other Marines were lucky enough to be conscripted into the Discovery Service, on a ship heading to the Arctic of all goddamned places.

In a few days, he’ll be brushing shoulders with sailors and kissing the boots of officers, but tonight, he drinks. He drinks until the edges of the room grow soft, until there is nothing sharp enough to stop him from tapping a pretty man on his shoulder and inviting him to his bed.

Or propped against the wall of an alley, the brick scraping Solomon’s knuckles. Or on his knees, his trousers ruined by puddlewater and mud, swallowing Solomon’s cock like honey. Or sitting close in a shadowy corner of this very pub where the table would hide their hands sliding into trousers and pulling each other off.

He winces, thrust from his daydreams, when Bill stands, wishing him a good night.

“’s beginning to think you’re deaf.” Bill pats his arm, giving him a knowing wink. “Don’t drink too much, you fool. Got a long day tomorrow.”

Solomon shrugs his hand off. “I’ll be fine.”

Bill gives him an unimpressed look, glancing in the direction of Solomon’s gentleman.

“Good luck to you then.”

Solomon raises his mug to Bill as he leaves. Bill shakes his head at him, but once he’s out the door, Solomon downs the remainder of his beer.

The liquid courage is enough to make his veins buzz and his fingertips tingle. He walks across the room before it fades and taps the gentleman’s shoulder.

The conversation between him and his friend fizzles, and while two pairs of eyes turn to Solomon, he cares only for the dark set directly in front of him. He is achingly gorgeous, and Solomon feels his mouth go dry from more than just drink. He is all jagged lines and shadows with his brown eyes, a thick brow, a nose and jaw angled sharp enough to cut. Solomon’s gaze drops to the man’s mouth — how pink his lips are, framed by the beginnings of an evening stubble — and he forces his eyes up.

“Might I buy you,” he says, pausing as he glances at the second man behind him, “and your friend a drink?”

The second man, decent enough to not sneer, excuses himself.

“It’s best I retire for the night,” he says with a pat on the stranger’s shoulder and a wide grin. “I’ll feel better with a full night’s sleep. Do enjoy yourself, old boy.”

The man’s accent is haughty enough that it grates. Solomon keeps his lips pressed into a tight smile as his teeth grind.

The gentleman’s voice, however, is smooth — and while it clings to traces of an Etonian inflection, it is less pronounced than his friend’s, and each syllable slides from his mouth as sweet as cream.

“Right. Goodnight, George.”

Solomon stares at the gentleman’s collar, tuning out whatever drivel George continues to spout (though his ears perk when he hears the name _Edward_ , how darling a name, and perfectly suited to the dark gentleman before him). Edward wears a burgundy necktie that accentuates the pale length of his neck, and he refocuses his eyes on the man’s face, stopping his mind from slipping into detailed phantasies of how he might kiss that neck until it turned black and blue under his teeth.

He snaps to attention when he realizes that they are now alone and the man has asked him a question.

“Beg pardon?”

Edward blinks, wetting his lips. 

“What are you having?” he asks again.

“I’ll have beer myself,” he says, arms loosely folded as he leans onto the edge of the bar. “But I’m buying, whatever you want.”

He knows how few coins sit in his pocket, but he can curse himself once he’s on board ship for going weak-kneed at a pair of slender legs, a tight arse, and dark eyes like some lovestruck fool.

Edward smiles, or rather starts to. The side of his mouth curls, and he mimics Solomon’s posture, placing a single arm onto the counter, fingers inches from brushing Solomon’s sleeve. He wets his lips again, a terribly endearing habit if Solomon should say so himself, and Edward is brave enough to meet his gaze and hold it.

“I’ll have the same as you, then.”

*

Edward gasps when Solomon licks the underside of his jaw beneath his whiskers. His head thumps against the wall, and before Solomon can step back, ask if he’s all right, Edward hooks his fingers into the front of his jacket and pulls. Their teeth collide before lips or tongue, and the rough and tumble shoots through Solomon like a bullet. He grabs both sides of Edward’s face, thumbs working into the hinge of his jaw, as he kisses him as desperately as a drowning man seeking air.

He presses Edward against the wall, until they are chest to chest and hip to hip. He can taste traces of beer in Edward’s mouth, and this close, he can smell the delicious musk of his sweat. He slots a leg between Edward’s thighs, grinning into the kiss when he hears (and feels) the sharp intake of breath. Edward’s cock is hard through his trousers, and when he starts to grind on his thigh, Solomon breaks the kiss. He bites Edward’s bottom lip, pinning his hips to the wall.

“Eager, are we?”

Edward swallows and doesn’t answer.

Even in the dim light of the narrow alley, Solomon can see that his pupils are blown. The noise of the pub is muffled by the thick walls, and when a nearby door opens, two men crowing in laughter as they stomp through puddles toward the main road, Solomon flattens himself against Edward. He holds his breath while Edward pants against his neck. He removes himself when the men’s voices fade, and Solomon shakes his head at himself, laughing at his paranoia.

Edward’s hands wander toward his waist, fingers catching on buttons. Solomon stops him.

“If we’re doing it here, we’ll have to be quick,” he warns.

Edward nods, his tongue darting from between his lips, looks away, then back again.

“I have a room nearby,” he suggests. “We wouldn’t be disturbed.”

Solomon snorts, hides his fond smile against Edward’s jacket.

The overcast sky begins to drizzle, raindrops bouncing off the shingles with a tinny echo.

“Then we’d best hurry.” 

*

Edward leads him to an old boarding house on the corner of a sleepy street. His room is up the stairs, the last door on the left. He opens it to a high-ceilinged room with a comfortable bed, a writing desk, wash basin, and two armchairs crowded against the wall.

Solomon stays near the door as Edward moves about the space, lighting several candles. Solomon sees now that the room is barely lived in. The only sign that Edward is staying here is a seaman’s chest shoved against the foot of the bed.

Solomon tenses at the sight.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise. Edward is boarding in Woolwich, after all. A good number of men here are sailors, and Solomon suspects that he might have the coincidence of bedding a ship’s officer on his hands. Idly, he wonders what Edward is: a mate, perhaps a lieutenant. Too young for a captaincy, but he walks with a poise that speaks to experience.

Edward stands beside the bed, his hand tugging at his necktie, eyes trained on the bedspread as though struck by a sudden shyness.

“What shall I call you? You have an advantage over me, knowing my name when I don’t know yours.”

Solomon stops himself short of giving him something forgettable; a _John_ or a _Jack._ There is something especially charming about Edward, as he fidgets, chin digging into his chest as his eyes peer at him from beneath his eyelashes before retreating to the floor again.

Solomon crosses the room, pushing Edward’s hands away so that he can untie the cravat for him. He kisses the skin as it is revealed; each gasp and sigh from Edward makes his cock ache.

“Call me Sol,” he whispers against the fading indent of his teeth.

Edward shivers, whispering _Sol,_ feeling the shape of the name on his tongue.

Solomon snakes an arm around Edward’s hips, pulling them flush.

“Yeah, that’s it.”

His hands slip lower, over Edward’s rear and to his thighs. Solomon hoists him up long enough to spin them and toss Edward onto the bed. The frame complains with a loud creak, and Edward himself is wide-eyed as Solomon quickly removes his uniform jacket. He tosses it onto one of the armchairs, smirking as he unbuttons and sheds his shirt. Edward’s eyes rove up and down his bare chest.

“You like that?”

Edward manages to shut his mouth, but he looks away again.

“No, no, none of that,” Solomon whispers, crawling across the bed and grabbing his chin between his fingers. “There’s no need to be shy. Look at me.”

He takes Edward’s hand and presses it against his ribs, right beneath where his heart beats steadily.

Edward’s gaze is hooded, and while he is not brave enough to look Solomon in the eye, he studies his torso. He cards his fingers through the hair on his chest, brushes a thumb against his nipple, dips his forefinger into the hollow of his collarbone. He looks focused with his brow furrowed, and when his pink tongue darts from between his teeth to wet his lips, Solomon groans and surges forward, kissing him deeply.

When he pulls away, there’s a beautiful flush on Edward’s cheeks, and he kisses him again, a quick peck before he pants a question against his mouth, “What do you want? Tell me what you like, and I’ll give it to you.”

The words tumble from him in a desperate plea, and he knows he should be ashamed, should be embarrassed enough to climb off Edward, gather his clothes in a bundle and leave.

Were this any other man, he would already have him flipped onto his stomach, a perfunctory swipe of fingers and spit before he had his way. Most nights like these, he and whatever man he decided to fuck would use the other for pleasure, indifferent to each other’s comfort.

Edward is different somehow, and Solomon listens intently as he makes his request, his fingers pulling at the waist of Solomon’s trousers.

“I want these off.” His voice is steady, and Solomon is terribly fond of how serious he sounds. “I want to feel you against me.”

That, he can do.

*

The room is hot enough that the windows must have fogged up behind the curtains. The mirror over the washbasin is clouded by the humidity, at least. Their legs are tacky where they slide together. Solomon thinks the sweat might be enough, but Edward retrieves a bottle of macassar oil from his toiletries. A few drops are enough to slick his inner thighs, and he lies back with his head on the pillow, knees pinched together, one hand loosely wrapped around his cock and the other trailing above his navel.

Solomon straddles his thighs. He licks a line from belly to neck, ending with a bruising kiss. The oil, mixed with the heady scent of their sex, goes straight to his head. The musk is as potent as burnt sugar or the steam rising off a cobbled road after a heavy summer rain. It’s intoxicating. So much so that Solomon feels the threat of his climax as soon as he sheathes himself between Edward’s legs. The tip of his cock brushes against Edward’s stones and the skin between his legs. Edward jerks, his thighs squeezing even more.

Solomon pauses and kisses him. He waits for the worst of the pressure to wane before he starts moving. He knows he won’t last long.

He clasps one hand on the back of Edward’s neck. The other goes to his cock. Their fingers collide, and Solomon nudges his hand away and takes over. He bends his wrist, the pads of his fingers sliding easily up the soft skin of Edward’s foreskin, his thumb rubbing over the slit of his cock.

“How do you like it?” he breathes against Edward’s mouth. His fingers squeeze tighter, and Edward gasps, thighs straining around Solomon. “Like that, yeah?”

Somewhere in the mess of a his moans and whines, Edward lets out a garbled _yes_ — _oh_ —

Solomon keeps his thrusts shallow, timing them with every pull on Edward’s cock. He digs his elbow into the pillow beside Edward’s head, propping himself up so that he can see Edward’s face. His eyes are screwed shut, mouth open and panting. Solomon tracks every sound that escapes him, every time his tongue brushes against his lips, every time he bites back a moan or his eyelashes flutter against his cheek. He drags his fingers up and down Edward’s cock in a single motion, from root to tip and back, and the sensation is enough that Edward bucks against Solomon, a loud cry bursting from him.

“Yeah, yeah…” Solomon picks up the pace, slapping his hips against the front of Edward’s thighs, “that’s it…god, there, there you go.”

Edward’s orgasm wrenches from him. His arms clutch his shoulders, his blunt nails digging into Solomon’s skin. His face crumples, which Solomon sees for only a second before Edward hides his face against Solomon’s neck.

He goes limp in Solomon’s arms, but he keeps his loose hold around his shoulders. Solomon can feel where Edward leaves a trail of wet kisses on his neck, leading behind his ear. He rubs circles where he left indentations and scratches along Solomon’s upper back.

Solomon shifts above him, pulling his cock out. Edward moves with him and props a thigh up, and Solomon grinds against it impatiently.

He spills onto Edward’s belly, the seed catching in tufts of hair and the dip of his navel. Solomon stares at it, barely resisting the urge to lick it up and feed it into Edward’s mouth.

Edward must read his mind, however, when he drags the tip of his finger through it. His eyes are black in the dim light of the room, and he pins Solomon with that dark stare as he brings his finger to his mouth and sucks on it.

Once his shock abates, Solomon growls, yanking Edward’s hand away, replacing with his own. The kiss he plants on the hinge of Edward’s jaw is far from gentle.

“You fucking _devil.”_

Edward chuckles, hardly able to keep his eyes open. Solomon cannot (and will not) stop the grin from spreading on his own face as he wrestles Edward’s arms above his head and silences his laughter with a kiss.

*

“I hate to ask you to…”

Solomon snorts, already swinging his legs off the bed.

“No need. I took you for a working man. I’ll scurry off.”

Edward looks askance at the floor, brow knitting together like this was all terribly vexing. Solomon would kiss those wrinkles away. He pulls on his trousers and shirt instead, fetching his jacket from the chair.

As he does up the buttons on his uniform, he glances over his shoulder at Edward to see him in the exact same position, leaning against the headboard, sheet drawn modestly up to his chest. He’s frowning at his covered knees.

Solomon has to crouch to grab one of his boots that got kicked under the bed. Lying nearby is Edward’s burgundy neckerchief, and Solomon stashes it into his pocket before he stands.

Edward finally leaves the bed and pulls on his trousers as Solomon is shoving his feet into his boots.

“I don’t normally… This isn’t…”

He finishes neither sentence. Solomon raises an eyebrow at him, and Edward at least has the decency to flush.

“I am sorry, Sol.”

Solomon shrugs. “Don’t be. I’ll see myself out.”

He opens the door enough to see if the hall is empty before he leaves, without so much as a wave or backward glance.

Edward shuts and locks the door behind him.

*

Three blocks away, Solomon retrieves the neckerchief. He runs the fine material through his hands and in a moment of fancy holds it to his nose where he can smell traces of Edward’s cologne and his natural musk. He isn’t normally one for souvenirs, but the burgundy is close enough to the red of his coat.

When he twines it around his wrist under the deceitful glow of a street lamp, he might trick himself into thinking they’re the same color.

**Author's Note:**

> i just want them to ya know (vague gestures) smash
> 
> [tumblr](https://whalersandsailors.tumblr.com)


End file.
